


Pasiphaë and the Bull

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Pasiphaë and the Bull [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I promise that something will actually happen in the next story, M/M, arty bullshit, very little in the way of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2755226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drinking, smoking, and other things that are bad for your heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pasiphaë and the Bull

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look!- it's a series, now!  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Years ago, Oswald remembers, when they were living across town, in the place they eventually had to flee in the night because of failure to pay the rent, a neighbor of theirs had a cat. It was black, with patches of white, like a little shirtfront and gloves. Oswald had never cared for animals, but the sight of it tickled him. As did its preferred mode of showing affection: it would leave on their neighbor's doorstep small dead or dying animals- birds and rodents, mostly, but once, a jewel-green lizard that Oswald gasped at seeing. Invariably, the woman shrieked, covered her mouth with her hands, did everything but gather her skirts around her and jump up on a chair. She'd call the cat names it couldn't possibly understand, and Oswald would watch and laugh and laugh, as she began to call him names, too.  
But she didn't understand that the cat loved her, loved her dearly, and was trying desperately to tell her, in the only way it knew how.  
Oswald thinks, now, of the woman and her cat. He's been called away from his ordinary duties, and the man who summoned him leads him through the restaurant to the alley in back. Maroni is there, as are half a dozen other men. When Oswald appears, by now breathing heavily from the long walk, Maroni casts his gaze on him, and gestures toward the man at the center of the group. The man's eyes give him away. The eyes will always unclothe guilt. Oswald smiles. He punches the man in the stomach, feels his breath hitch as the man doubles over. He gives them both the span of a breath, and then, he pulls the man up, huffing with annoyance at the effort, and hits him in the face. He must have struck a tooth, because his knuckle blooms with pain, and when he looks at it, he sees that it's bleeding. He's raising it to his mouth, when he hears Maroni tsk.  
“Be careful that he doesn't bleed on your hand,” Maroni says to Oswald, then turns to one of the other men, “Give him a handkerchief, or something.”  
The man mutters something about not having one, and the others look at the ground or up at the sky. Finally, Oswald remembers that he has his own, with his initials on it, and everything. “I have one,” he proclaims brightly, and wraps it around his finger.  
Maroni smiles, and Oswald smiles back, and he goes on hitting the offending party with his fists, until somebody hands him a crowbar. He feels his smile expand, and he strikes the man hard above the knee. This produces a series of delicious sounds: the ragged yelp from the man's mouth; the flat pat of metal against flesh; a heavy collection of noises as the man hits the ground on his hands. Oswald hits him again, right on the side of the knee, on the bone, and thrills at the solid 'crack'. The man collapses completely, groaning and retching.  
“That's good for now,” Maroni says. Panting, Oswald looks up. “He just needs some time to think about what he's done.” Maroni flicks his wrist, and two of the men drag the other away.  
“He looks like he needs a cigarette,” one of the remaining men mutters, nodding at Oswald.  
Maroni doesn't look at him, but turns his head slightly in his direction and narrows his eyes. In a hard voice, he says, “So, give him one.”  
It takes Oswald a second to realize that they're talking about him. He's handed a cigarette and a lighter, and he's regarding them when Maroni says, “Light it for him.” Oswald puts the cigarette between his lips, and has it lit for him. Of course, he's never really smoked, but he's heard that the trick is not inhaling the first time. Even so, he feels the nicotine stealing into his blood, like the slow trickle of a leaking pipe. The effect is peculiar, both enervating and calming, and he feels the tension leave his muscles as though physically carried away. They're all standing, watching him; Maroni's men, stone-faced and silent, while Maroni looks sort of amused. Oswald finishes his cigarette, drops it and places a hand against the wall to steady himself as he grinds it out with his heel.  
“I'm going to need to see you later,” Maroni says with the utmost casualness, and Oswald does his best to look just as casual as he nods. If anyone infers anything from their exchange, he keeps it to himself. And life goes back to normal.

Once again, he's delivered to the hotel. Tonight, he feels different. Is he imagining it, or was there something different, too, about Maroni, today? And was he right to feel as though Maroni were- what?- showing him off?- to all of those men? To say what? Oswald frowns. Did he do what was required? It's so hard, living up to people's expectations. Inevitably, you'll start lying, even if you don't mean to. Or telling different lies than you were when you started out.  
Or the lies just rest, after a while, when you're not using them, like winter coats in the summer. Until you have to put them on again. That's the best way to do it. Lie only when you have to; the rest of the time, tell the truth. If nothing else, the truth is easier to keep track of.  
And if the truth just doesn't work, make yourself believe your own lies. Change what it means to tell the truth.  
The elevator doors open on the great room, Maroni sitting directly opposite them, near the glass doors of the balcony, drinking something. On the table before him is a big glass bowl filled with ice, a bottle of vodka sunk into it at an angle. Maroni says nothing as Oswald walks toward him, and then, when Oswald is near, “Drink?”  
“Yes, please,” says Oswald. The vodka, he assumes, is for him. Maroni's drink is deep brown, with what can only be described as a deep brown scent coming off of it. There's a small glass in the ice next to the bottle, and Oswald fills it nearly to the top. Maroni raises his glass, and Oswald looks at it, not knowing what to do, until Maroni says, “To mixing business and pleasure. Whenever possible.” Oswald laughs, “Oh,” and touches his glass to Maroni's.  
“Sit,” says Maroni, raising his eyebrows.  
Oswald does, and he sips his drink, and he waits to be told something important, or to have to explain himself about something. None of that happens, though, and Maroni pours himself another drink when he finishes the first one. Oswald has another, and another, because the glass is small, and one more because he can. By then, he can't remember why he was nervous. There was never anything to fear. The world is a toy version of a machine, full of small parts that he can't see and don't really work, so nothing could hurt him. All he has to do is stay as he is, forever in this twilight that is pressed between feelings, but isn't really a feeling at all. Breathing out this deep blue air.  
“So, you smoke, now?” Maroni asks, and Oswald's sure he's being laughed at, but he doesn't care. Maroni sounds like he imagines someone's father would. Not his father, whom he never knew, but he's sure didn't sound like this, but like a father on a television show.  
“I guess so.”  
“I'll have to get some cigarettes to keep here,” Maroni muses, “I used to have a cigarette box. I don't know what happened to it, though.”  
Now, he feels- he's not sure what this is, but it cancels out being laughed at, clears the slate and the whole goddamn world, too. Before he can think about what he's doing, he takes Maroni's glass, puts it on the table, and spills himself into Maroni's lap. He kisses Maroni, feeling his breath catch and stutter, licking the wood-and-smoke taste from the inside of his mouth. Until he begins to cramp, and he has to pull away, biting his lip and rubbing his knee.  
“That really did it for you, earlier, didn't it?”  
“You already knew that,” Oswald says breathlessly.  
“Yeah. I knew. But I know you like it the other way, too.”  
“What do you mean?”  
Maroni stands, grips his wrists, shakes him a little bit. Oswald exhales roughly, looks up at Maroni. “Like that.”  
“Yes. Like that. I like it both ways,” Oswald says, so softly he barely hears the words leave his mouth.  
“Tell me what you want me to do.”  
“Oh.” He looks down. He feels the haze of a flush spread over his cheeks, down his throat.  
“You're blushing.”  
“I know.”  
“That's nice. You can still blush. After everything we've done.”  
Oswald looks up again. God help him, he feels his eyelashes flutter. “I don't usually talk this way.”  
“No, you don't.”  
“Only with you,” he adds, though he knows it's unnecessary. It's too much.  
Or it's enough. “I know,” Maroni murmurs.  
The alcohol has wrapped him, in layer upon layer of velvet and satin. It shuts out the world, and it sort of shuts him out from himself. So, he only hears himself sigh, sigh and say, “I want to do what we did the other night.”  
“Which was?”  
“I want you to hold me down and fuck me.”  
“What else?”  
What else? Does he have to say everything? Should he go through it moment by moment? Isn't it enough to relate the general idea, and to let Maroni fill it in as he pleases? But he goes on. “I want you to kiss me. Please.”  
Maroni laughs at that 'please', and he pulls Oswald in close, and up a bit so he's forced to stand on his toes, and kisses him.  
Unbidden, Oswald thinks of Liza. Thinks of Liza, who might think that she's good. But Oswald is better. He thinks of Liza, and kisses Maroni deep and long, sucks his tongue, lets himself let out small, helpless sounds. Liza's scared- scared all the time, he imagines. If you're afraid, really afraid, they can tell; then, they'll hurt you because it's so easy, it would be a shame not to.  
But he doesn't want to think about her. In excess, his thoughts of her come too close to pity, and that's a mistake. No one should have any pity from him. He holds on tightly to Maroni, all but hangs on him, lets one hand creep down, over solid, over immovable flesh; lets it cling to Maroni's hip for a moment before moving it inward. He slows down, touches gently, lets his hand stay where it is, still and warm, as he holds on. He lets himself be moved, shaken out like a rag doll; lets himself be stripped of his jacket and his tie. Lets himself be pulled along into the bedroom, tossed onto the bed with such violence that he bounces, letting out a squeaking gasp.  
“Did I hurt you?” Maroni asks, his voice soft as the darkness around them.  
“No. It was just a little surprising.” He's not making the 's' sound properly. Though he can't remember how it's supposed to sound. It's something he should know. He frowns.  
Then, Maroni laughs. “Shit. Sleep it off, Penguin.”  
Oswald lies back, closes his eyes, and feels as well as registers visually the darkness of the room become complete as Maroni closes the door.

Someone's done something to the house. There are things in the dark, huge and solid things, that don't belong there. As he slept, someone must have sneaked in and rearranged the walls. Where are the lights? Where is his mother? Where is he?  
He blunders over to a door, turns the knob. Even this feels alien, too smooth, too new.  
“Oh,” he says, as he enters the hallway, feeling magnificently stupid. The walls are different because he's not at home, but in Maroni's suite. His clothes are still on because he fell asleep fully dressed. His mouth is dry and he feels wrung-out inside because he drank a lot of alcohol in a very short period of time. No more mysteries.  
He's looking for the bathroom, or the kitchen, someplace to get a glass of water, but opulence apparently precludes convenience, because he can't seem to find much of anything but more hallway. Finally, after what seems like hours of padding through the dark, his body gradually filling up with the pains that tell him that he's both no longer drunk and just alive, he comes to a bathroom. There, he cups his hand under the tap, and drinks the coolest, sweetest water he's ever tasted. Letting the tap run, he stops for a moment, presses his cheek to the counter, which is mercifully glacial against his heavy head full of plans and secrets. Could it get cold enough to freeze his thoughts? Could he remove them like ice cubes, put them in his drink? He raises his head again, drinks more, drinks until he realizes he has to piss. He does that, then looks at himself in the mirror. The lights are kindly dim, but the shadows they give make him look gaunt- famished. His reflection looks like it could reach through the mirror and devour him. He starts back. He turns his head, frowns at the shape of his nose, the jut of his chin. Is it better when you're rounder, your bones padded, buffered from the air? Better, how?, he thinks. He turns out the light, leaves the bathroom.  
He's not drunk, but he doesn't really feel sober, either. He's not fully alert, but he's no longer tired or disoriented. He doesn't feel like much of anything, there in the dark, and he imagines that this is what it's like to disappear, to become invisible.  
After a while, he finds the room in which Maroni's sleeping. He takes off his clothes and gets into bed next to him.  
“That you?” Maroni says against a pillow.  
“Shh,” says Oswald, “I'm invisible.”  
Maroni chuckles. “Are you still drunk?”  
“No. Just invisible.”  
“You're an odd bird.”  
“That's what people keep telling me.”  
Maroni turns to face him, presses against him. “Are you here to finish what we started?”  
“Yes.” Yes. He realizes that this is what he wants.  
Maroni kisses him, moves so that he's completely on top of him. Newly pulled from sleep, he's heavy and soft, his movements slow, leisurely. Oswald lets himself be petted and stroked and rubbed up against. If he wanted anything else, it's all forgotten. It's the greatest freedom in the world: the freedom from specific desire. This is the one place in his life that he knows it, knows what it is to want for absolutely nothing; to neither crave nor be dissatisfied with what he gets. It's what makes him so good at this.  
“What do you want?”  
It's a bit eerie to be asked that question, and Oswald starts. “I- oh- just keep doing that.”  
“Doing this?” Maroni asks, and pushes against him.  
“Yes.” Oswald lets his head fall back. “I just want to feel you.” He spreads his fingers across Maroni's shoulders, feels the machinery of muscle, the thrilling and terrifying strength there, beneath his fingers. As much as there's softness to him, there's also hardness, and the combination of the two is disorienting and frightening. And perfect. There's no shame in being held down- by someone so strong- and liking to be held down- by someone who makes it so good. Maroni's hands are all over him- on his hips, moving him; around his wrists; on his face, and Oswald turns his head, sucks his fingers. He's turning into nothing but nerve, nothing but sensation. When he comes, it's almost painful, dragged up from deep within him, and he hears himself groan as though he were struck. Maroni arches over him, and Oswald moves his hand down, frowning as his abraded knuckle touches semen or sweat and lights up with saline pain. He wraps his hand around Maroni's cock, winces at the odd angle, moves a bit to give himself more room. By now, he's tired again, and he aches all over, and he's beginning to feel that strange and tender melancholy that sometimes comes over him, but it doesn't take much longer. When it's over, he's filled with a mixture of relief and disappointment, and he really needs to stop drinking so much. His mother was right about alcohol making men stupider versions of their usual selves.  
Maroni goes into the bathroom, and Oswald follows, silently cleans himself up. Rubs his goose-fleshed arms. Lets himself be held, bare and shivering, against the counter and kissed until he feels as though he might turn inside out. As though in a dream, he slips his hand between Maroni's legs, though there's no point to it, now. He touches for the sake of touching, as he's held against the counter, moved around, pushed up onto it. Now, he's just there, not doing much of anything, limp and ragged, and he thinks of the first night, and hitting the man chained to the toilet until he was too weary to lift his arms, falling against him. He thinks of that, now, naked on the marble, cold and exhausted and drained of feeling. But which is he? Too tired to fight any longer- or chained up, bound, never having had a chance?


End file.
